


Rock

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dry Humping, Ficlet, M/M, Mild Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 23:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8179318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A well-dressed Neville is Draco’s kryptonite.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: My entry for September’s Daily Deviant with the prompt “arousal from formal wear.” This isn’t properly British.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

He looks infuriatingly good, even with his collar unduly rumpled and his smile a little lopsided. For once, his hair’s brushed well enough. His hands don’t look dirty, don’t sport the telltale clumps of soil under his nails. His robes look tailored and _expensive_ , distinctly out of place with the idea Draco has of him: _Gryffindors aren’t supposed to look that good._

But Neville Longbottom looks ravishing, and the later the evening drags on, the more Draco can’t get past it. He sees all the dressed-up students milling about the hall in awkward teenage dances, and he remembers the few times in his adult life he’s been free enough to enjoy a partner like that, and none of them ever looked as striking as Neville does now. They all had designer robes. He maintained some standards. But Neville’s fit like a glove, the crisp white shirt and brown vest beneath his black robes practically painted on. The shoulder seams are in just the right position to show off both broadness and biceps. Every time Neville lifts his pumpkin juice to his lips, his wrist peeks out beyond his cuffs, and Draco stares at the flash of skin.

And then he finally gets over himself, reminds himself that it’s better to weather the temporary humiliation of approaching someone like Longbottom than to remain bitterly alone and _wanting_ , and he finally moves. The sides of the Great Hall are lined in professors playing chaperone. Most are much older and growing sleepy with the late hour, or watching the dance floor with wistful nostalgia in their eyes. Neville just looks bored. Draco wanders right up to his side, close enough to be heard over the blaring music without shouting, and drawls, “It’s not like ours was, is it.”

“It’s not,” Neville concedes. He spares Draco a sideways glance, then returns his gaze to the crowd they’re supposed to be monitoring. Theirs was under different circumstances, of course, but all the nonsense of the Triwizard Tournament aside, it feels like these kids have the music louder, their robes shorter, and the dancing’s less savoury than Draco would’ve attempted in front of professors. Instead of those differences, Neville chuckles suddenly, “I was so clumsy back then.” He shakes his head, grinning at himself. 

That was the least of Neville’s problems. Draco never would’ve thought him competent enough to become the Herbology professor back in Hogwarts. Draco agrees, “You were.”

Neville snorts. “At least I must’ve grown up well enough, or you wouldn’t be over here eyeing me up.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Draco snaps instantly, head whipping around, even though it’s exactly what he’s been doing all night. It’s still annoying to be caught. He thinks of insisting it’s not Neville, it’s the robes—the right clothes can make anyone look good. But that would still feel like a compliment, albeit a backhanded one, so he just grumbles, “I think I liked you better before the war, when you were a sniveling coward.”

Neville turns to give him _that look_ , and Draco closes his mouth. He regrets his comment already. 

He knows he was a bigger coward. And so much worse. And he made Neville’s life hell, and he’s grown up enough to know the fact that Neville wasn’t so handsome back then isn’t a good enough excuse. 

Sparing them the fight, Neville doesn’t say any of that, just tells him softly, “No, you like me better now.”

Even though it wouldn’t get him what he wants, Draco has the urge to say otherwise. He doesn’t. He concedes, “You do clean up nicely.” The crooked smile dawns back over Neville’s face. It lights him up with more sex appeal than Draco can handle so up close. Every time Draco goes down to the greenhouses, usually under the pretext of being a potion master in need of ingredients, Neville’s a mess, smeared with dirt and grass stains and loose clothes full of wrinkles, or his sleeves too far up his arms or his shirt half off. He looks like a wet dream then. But _formal_ Neville, carefully put together to impeccable taste, is _Draco’s_ wet dream. 

Draco lifts one hand behind Neville’s back, touching and peering at his shoulder just out of his line of sight, and lies, “But you have a seam splitting.”

Neville twists to try and look. Draco uses the distraction to slip the goblet out of Neville’s hand and suggests, “C’mon, I can fix it outside, where the light’s better.”

Neville grumbles, “I thought expensive things were supposed to be made better.” But he does nod and acquiesce, letting Draco tug him towards the doors by his sleeve. They wind past their peers and giggling students, back out into the hallway.

Then they’re into the corner, under the shadows, just enough light for Draco to still see what Neville Longbottom looks like for a formal event, but not nearly enough light to cast a sewing spell by. Neville, unlike the bumbling idiot he used to be, quickly dons a knowing look and grins. Draco doesn’t know if he’s supposed to say something, like he’s sorry for all those years he was so cruel, but he’s still cruel, or that this doesn’t mean anything, just that he’s _weak_ and Neville looks _so good._ Draco’s usually better with words. Neville isn’t, so at least the silence is mutual, until Draco’s pulled them together enough for a kiss that isn’t anywhere near chaste. The second their lips are together, Neville’s cologne hits Draco like a train. It’s too strong to even tell if he likes it. Neville’s body is so _warm,_ lips soft but a little chapped, a little wet. He tastes like pumpkin juice. His hands slide into Draco’s hair, one on either side, holding him in. 

Neville kisses like he looks: strong and exquisite. It drowns out Draco’s guilt at kissing a Gryffindor. At least he’s a pureblood. He kisses Draco back like he’s been thinking of it just as long. 

Then they part for a breath, and Neville mutters under the muffled hum of the Great Hall’s music, “We should tuck into a broom closet or something.”

Draco shakes his head. “There are no windows in a broom closet.”

“So?”

Draco scrunches up his nose, irritated at having to admit it. “So then I wouldn’t be able to see what you look like in expensive clothes.”

Neville just laughs. “Is everything about money with you?”

Draco glares. He actually managed to say something complimentary, and Neville managed to ruin it. Even bristling, Draco still pulls Neville back in. Their lips hit again, harder this time, noses bumping and having to turn, and Neville takes a step to turn them completely, forcing Draco back against the wall. He’s flattened into it a heartbeat later, Neville’s hard body bearing into his, and he can feel all the taut muscles Neville’s earned crushing into his own lithe form. Then Neville’s leg shifts, and Draco can feel something else hard.

Neville grinds into him, digging him into the wall and earning a grunt, but it’s worth it—Draco’s been on the verge of stiffening all night. He brings his hands to Neville’s sides, pressing into the smooth, silken fabric of Neville’s robes and running up to take in the svelte quality. Neville keeps one hand threaded in Draco’s hair and runs the other down to clutch at Draco’s hip, legs angling to grind them better together. On the next thrust of Neville’s hips, Draco can feel _everything_ , and the drag of Neville’s clothed cock against his own sends a shiver up his spine. 

Fingers tightening in Neville’s shoulders, Draco wants to rip the robes off. He wants to see them pool at Neville’s feet, pluck the buttons off Neville’s vest off one by one, slide the zipper of Neville’s trousers down with his teeth. But he’s also torn, because he can see a disheveled Neville all the time, but a proper, put together Neville like this is so hard to come by. But the clothes between them become more of a nuisance with each rub of their bodies. He can’t _feel_ enough. He craves skin on skin. He craves it too much. Thinks of this too much. Since the moment he applied here and saw Neville sitting at the head table, he’s craved this, first in some sick fantasy of being _punished_ by the hardened lion Neville’s become, then in wild spin offs of earning potions ingredients with his mouth, of being fucked in the greenhouses, of taking Neville over his desk, of swimming naked in the lake and fucking in the boathouse. He doesn’t know why he took so long. He runs his fingers along the stiff collar at the back of Neville’s neck and wishes he’d been there in the changing rooms when Neville first tried this on. 

Neville ends their slew of kisses to bite at the side of Draco’s mouth. It’s crude and messy and far too alluring. Draco tilts his head and lets Neville nip at his jaw and run blunt teeth down his neck, Draco twisting to return the favour. They mark each other up and return to each other’s mouth, tongues twisting out to meet halfway through, a moan stuck in Draco’s throat and barely stifled between Neville’s lips. _This_ is how balls are supposed to end. And Draco’s not that old yet—feels both haggard by the war and like he deserves to catch up on all his missed youth—and he feels like one of the foolish teenagers he was supposed to be watching. Neville isn’t any better and kisses him just as fiercely. 

Then they hear loud, obnoxious giggling, and pull apart to the click-clack of heels across the stone floor. Two girls go running out, their bubble-skirt minidresses shimmering different colours and lighting up the hall. They chase each other off down the end of the hall, but it’s enough to break Draco’s moment. He’s already licking his lips clean by the time Neville looks back at him. 

The smart thing to do—the thing that would honour his parents and his house—would be to end this now and blame the heady atmosphere. But Neville slips his hand into Draco’s and murmurs, “My office isn’t far.”

So Draco nods and follows.


End file.
